Wayfaring Stranger
by Stannis is the one true king
Summary: Harry in WW1.


"AFFIX BAYONETS!" Came the shout up and down the line.

"Potter! Get up that ladder!" The Lieutenant yelled as Harry looked around at the madness he was in the middle of.

The whistle blew all around him and Harry charged up, rifle in hand, as he headed over the top, he looked around at the bleak desolation he found himself in. Blood everywhere, screams and loud booms as cannon and gun rained fire down upon man after man. A short burst from a few hundred yards over the churned up ground and Harry could see a dozen tiny projectiles heading directly towards him, throwing himself down, Harry thanked Merlin as he managed to dodge in time, hearing a scream behind him, he knew the next man over hadn't been so lucky and cursed.

Another scream around him and he saw John Granger, a man he knew was only 16, fall to the ground, a look of horror forever etched onto his face. Harry knew his eye colour, a dark brown, yet all he could see was red, with a hole where Granger's forehead once was.

"GRANGER!" Harry called out. He had taken the kid under his wing, remembering another person with his name he had once known, taught him how to stay quiet, keep his head down, don't draw attention to himself, and all for naught. Harry tried to remember if Granger had ever told him about any family back home, whether the man had anyone who would be missed, or would miss him. Racking his brains, he remembered the man had spoken once about a brother, Daniel or something, and a fiancée waiting for him, a comely girl, if he recalled, by the name of Dorothy.

Getting to his knees, Harry crawled over to where John lay, trying to ignore the whizzing of bullets passing over his head and all around him, as explosions wrought the ground ahead of him. He heard shouts, unintelligible as he rummaged through John's clothes, looking for one thing. Finding the chain in his pocket, he pulled the dog tags off of him, determined to return them to Dorothy one day.

"I'm sorry." Harry said simply, closing John's blood-soaked eyes and stumbling to his feet. Hearing the cries of the wounded all around him, Harry struggled to make it past the barbed wire and onto No Man's land properly. Out here, the stench of death and decay was even more poignant, passing by a crater, jumping to the side as bullets strafed the ground by his feet, he felt his feet step into nothingness and he fell into the crater, dropping his rifle as he slid into the mud, landing in a small pool of murky brown water, surrounded by the bodies of those who had fallen before. He saw British soldiers, people he may have known, lying face down in the water, at the edge, he could see a body from a counter-attack, a German uniform on the dead man, half of his face buried in the side of the crater.

"Dear God." Harry said, wiping mud off of his face as he looked around for a way out of the crater. Cursing, he saw the only chance was to hope the mud didn't slip beneath his boots, and to possibly use the fallen as a ladder. Heading to the side away from where he had fallen, closer to where the British trenches and relative safety would be, Harry began to drag himself up the side of the crater, hands slipping in the muck as he did.

Dragging himself out of the crater, Harry took a moment to assess his surroundings. All around him were the dead and the dying. Crying men begging for mercy, for help, for their mothers, for God. Harry could do nothing for them except try help some of the more fortunate to safety. For those he could see were already too far gone, he could only pray for a quick end. The guns had fallen silent, it seemed as if this was clearly another failed attack, with the Germans no doubt planning a counter-attack.

"Potter?" One weak voice near to him said, crouching as he moved, Harry found Private Smith looking at him, eyes unfocused.

"Smith?" Harry asked as he approached him, grimacing at the sight.

"Can you help me stand and get back to the trench, old chap? Only, it seems I can't feel my legs."

Looking down at him, Harry could tell him the reason he couldn't feel them, blood poured freely from the stumps of what would have been his knees, if both of them and everything below hadn't vanished.

"Smith…." Harry said, words failing him as he wondered what he could say to the man.

"It's bad, isn't it?" Smith asked him. "Never fear, just pull me along until we get to the wire, get some of the other lads to help me, won't you?"

"Aye, I mean, yes, we'll get you help, Smith." Harry promised, cursing his luck once more as he grabbed the wounded man by the arms and slowly dragged him, watching out for any stray bullets or a new barrage. Heaving Smith over a thirty yard stretch of land felt like it took an eternity to Harry, as they eventually reached the barbed wire above the British trenches.

"Man down! Wounded man here!" Harry called over to his fellow troops, as two men carrying a stretcher climbed above the trench line and grabbed Smith, hurrying with him back to the trench, Harry in tow.

"Potter!" A voice called. Looking over he saw the Lieutenant, Lieutenant Jones.

"Sir?" Harry asked as the Lieutenant fixed him with a look.

"I saw what you did, bringing Smith back like that. There will be a medal in it for, bravery in the face of danger to rescue a fellow soldier."

"Thank you Sir, but there's no need, I'd have done it no matter what." Harry protested.

"Ah, modesty, an admirable trait, but there's no need, Potter, you should be proud of what you've done today." Jones told him. "Now, get yourself to a medic and get yourself cleaned up, I expect you'll be ready to have a sit down after the day you've had so far. Chin up, Potter, the Bosch are on the run, the war will be over by Christmas!"

"You've said that for the past three!" One of the privates sniggered from further down the line.

"I heard that, Finnegan!" Jones roared, turning to him. "Damn Irishmen, no work ethic! I notice you were quick to head back here after the German guns started firing, eh?"

"Come on now, Sir, you saw I fought as hard as I could, we couldn't break their lines, we never do." Finnegan protested.

"You didn't try hard enough, one more push, with everyone trying, the Hun won't stand a chance, we'll be over their lines and on to Berlin by next week I wager." Jones told him. "Have to stick at it next time, Finnegan."

"Yes, Sir!" Finnegan replied, knowing anything else would be pointless to argue with, the Lieutenant never listened.

"Potter, what are you still doing here?" Jones said, looking over at Harry. "Didn't I tell you to go to the medics?"

"Sir!" Harry saluted before heading off, looking at the miserable faces around him, covered in blood and grime, many wincing or clutching their sides, arms, heads and legs. Harry shook his head as he walked through the trenches towards where the medics were. Reaching them, Harry asked the medic what the date was.

"July 2nd, Potter." The medic's curt reply was.

'Just a few months then.' Harry told himself. 'Then I can get back to England and get on with my plan.'


End file.
